


a little party never killed nobody

by hellodeer



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, M/M, That's it that's the plot, les amis are party goers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-01
Updated: 2013-10-01
Packaged: 2017-12-28 02:36:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/986658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellodeer/pseuds/hellodeer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They're at the club downtown again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a little party never killed nobody

**Author's Note:**

> i don't even know.

They’re at the horrible club downtown, the one Enjolras _hates_ , promised he’d never set foot in again. But Courfeyrac had begged, and when that hadn’t worked, he had grinned, and nobody could resist Courfeyrac when he grinned. So here they are, brought back with promises of new owners, new atmosphere, a lot less awfulness.

And Enjolras can admit, if begrudgingly, that Courfeyrac was right; the place does look a lot better. The bar is good, the staff efficient and friendly, the lighting is nice and intense, it’s crowded but not packed full, the DJ is fucking awesome. Plus, it’s 80’s Rock night. Les Amis would be very disappointed if they missed it.

(Courfeyrac wouldn’t talk to Enjolras for three days, until he found them another thing to go to. Jehan would write sad poetry about it. He’d probably cry, too. Combeferre would frown, which he only does when he’s very cross indeed.)

As it is, thanks to Courfeyrac, they’re having the time of their lives ((they are always having the time of their lives, at every party and festival and night club and pub crawl and small, smoky underground venues filled with the cool kids)). Jehan, who becomes loose and electric after a few drinks, or even when he has no drinks at all, as long as there is good music, is jumping up and down on the dance floor, the beat taking hold of his body and carrying all his inhibitions away. Courfeyrac is waving a drink around, dancing next to the DJ, who smiles awkwardly at him, his shirt and one of his shoes lost.

Bahorel sneers at his shirtless friend, but he is in the very middle of the floor, so it is lost on Courfeyrac. He’s trying to control himself because he was almost thrown out earlier for trying to start a mosh, and he’s succeeding, but just barely. He always likes it more when they go to band gigs and festivals where he can lose himself in the bodies around him, the push and pull, the sweat, the collisions. His smile is brighter when it’s bloody.

He had Feuilly with him half an hour ago, but his friend is at the bar now, talking to some poor soul about Poland. The girl, bless her, smiles and nods in all the right places, and looks actually genuinely interested. 

Bossuet has Joly pressed up against a wall near the bar, and he alternates between kissing him languidly and whispering soft nothings in his ear. Joly, his eyes closed, his hands on his boyfriend’s hips, looks the more relaxed he has in weeks.

Leaning against the same wall are Marius and Éponine. Marius, always the first one to tire, is sitting on the floor a few feet from the crowd. He and Éponine are chatting, and she smiles softly up at him, her head resting against the wall, her knee touching Marius’. Every so often he’ll lift his head and scan the dance floor for Cosette, who is dancing with Jehan and Musichetta.

Combeferre is not dancing either. He’s watching his friends from a corner, sipping a drink. It’s his first and last tonight, because he is their designated driver, except none of them drove here. But he feels responsible for them, in a way, knowing they need someone to have their mind clear if something happens, and something always does (varying only in level of disaster. Bahorel almost getting thrown out is a four, someone throwing up is a one, Enjolras getting furious and making people cry an eight).

It’s three in the morning, and Enjolras is dancing dancing dancing, sweating, surrounded by too many people, too many strangers. He loves it. Grantaire is jumping up and down in front of him, shouting the lyrics to Welcome to the Jungle, his pupils blown, the blue of his irises almost consumed by black and he looks out of it, wild, crazy. Drunk Grantaire is normal Grantaire, but still Enjolras frowns, touches his elbow to ask if he’s feeling all right, and Grantaire gives him a _look_ , and suddenly—

suddenly—

suddenly Grantaire has his hands on Enjolras’s shoulder and his launching forward and kissing him. Enjolras gasps, caught off guard, and Grantaire takes the opportunity to lick into his mouth. 

He tastes of alcohol, of course he does. But he also tastes of something else, something Enjolras doesn’t know, something that is entirely Grantaire, maybe a mixture of skepticism and love and good art. Enjolras holds him by the waist, kisses him back.

*

It’s five thirty in the morning and the place is almost empty now. A bartender has been lazily wiping a glass for five minutes.

Jehan, sitting on the floor with his back against the bar, is humming quietly to himself, tired, happy. His legs are spread wide, Cosette between them as he braids her hair. She’s playing on her phone with one hand, the glow of the screen painting her face blue, her other hand grasped in one of Marius’s, his head on her shoulder, his eyelids dropping.

Feuilly and Bahorel stand against the wall by the bar. Feuilly had been on a full on rant but is quiet now, blinking lazily at them like he doesn’t know who they are or who he is or what year it is. Bahorel has his head pillowed on his arm, which is in turn resting on Feuilly’s shoulder.

Courfeyrac comes from the other bar, the one all the way across the dance floor. His shirt and shoe have somehow found their way back to him.

“Grantaire!” he says, way too loud. Bahorel grunts something. “Try this drink the cute blonde bartender made me.” 

Grantaire is standing against the bar, nuzzling Enjolras’s temple where his hair is soft and blonde and curly, his arm around Enjolras’s shoulder. Enjolras hasn’t stopped smiled since Grantaire first kissed him, and Grantaire himself looks delighted, dizzy, puzzled but so happy Combeferre chuckles quietly.

“What’s in it?” asks Joly. He and Bossuet are sitting side by side on chairs they somehow managed to find, Bossuet looking tired with his arm around his boyfriend, Joly looking slightly upset and stressed again. 

Courfeyrac shrugs. “No idea,” he says, smiling his shit eating grin at Joly. “Probably should have asked before I put it in my mouth, but oh well.”

“You have probably had worst things in your mouth,” Bahorel deadpans.

“Definitely,” Courfeyrac nods, then holds his drink for Grantaire to take, which he does. Joly has a very strict rule of never drinking from other people’s glasses, not even Bossuet’s and Musichetta’s (which is completely pointless since he _kisses_ them), so he makes a strangled sound and starts to hyperventilate.

Bossuet scooters closer to him, almost sitting on Joly’s lap, tightens his hold around Joly’s shoulder and places his free hand over Joly’s heart, massaging his chest and speaking softly to him, “Shhh, you’re okay, it’s okay”, over and over. Musichetta comes from the dance floor, face flushed and hair a mess, positions herself behind Joly’s chair and starts to run her fingers through his hair.

Éponine, back from the restroom, goes straight to Combeferre and hugs him by the waist, hiding her face in his neck. She’s drunk and Combeferre blushes, awkwardly holding her back and patting her hair.

Grantaire takes Courfeyrac’s drink. He takes a big gulp and Enjolras watches the line of his throat, his Adam’s apple working, the stubble on his pale skin. When he looks up, Grantaire is watching him out of the corner of his eyes.

He gives the glass back to Courfeyrac, then turns his head to fully stare at Enjolras.

Enjolras feels his heart clutch at the raw emotion in Grantaire’s eyes, the love and devotion he sees. He wonders why he spent so much time denying Grantaire (and himself, too) this, why he pretended he doesn’t feel exactly the same, why he hid it all behind disdain and contempt. He curls his fingers in Grantaire’s shirt.

“So?” Courfeyrac asks.

“It’s good, man,” Grantaire answers, smiling crookedly, full of promises. “It’s good.”


End file.
